


Buried Far

by nothingislittle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst, Dirty Talk, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, M/M, POV John Watson, Pining John, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smug Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 14:48:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1432432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingislittle/pseuds/nothingislittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The deep baritone voice bled into the room like spilled wine on a white table cloth, seeping into John from head to foot. He turned over. Sherlock was silhouetted in the doorway, looming and mysterious, coat and all. John could trace the contours of that silhouette with the wrong hand and his eyes closed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buried Far

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know what this is. I procastinated my WIPs so hard I wrote this. Barely beta'd, I'm sure I'll regret it in the morning.

“You realize I notice when you stare at me.”

Sherlock dripped blue fluid from a plastic pipette onto microscope slides while John was attempting to make tea and toast for the two of them. He had, in fact, been distracted from the task by the way Sherlock’s fringe drifted over his brow as he moved, which was the precise moment Sherlock decided to put him on the spot. John feigned ignorance, shaking his head and clearing his throat as he turned to the kettle.

“What?”

“John, please, no need to be embarrassed. I have been reliably informed that, objectively, my body and face are very attractive. You staring at me is the same as someone appreciating a nice sculpture or a beautiful painting.”

John was non-plussed into silence and Sherlock applied his eyes to the microscope viewer, smirking.

Obviously Sherlock was beautiful. Obviously John stared. He’d thought he had an unspoken agreement with the world’s most observant man the he would never mention it.

Obviously, he was wrong.

“Please, feel free to continue staring. Although, assuredly you will whether I give my permission or not.” The smugness roiling off of Sherlock was palpable, repulsive, and John clenched his jaw as he handed Sherlock his tea.

“You’re a piece of work, you know that?”

“You certainly seem to think so.”

John slammed the plates of toast on the table as he sat down, irritated and embarrassed.

“Shut up, Sherlock.”

“Oh yes, fine art is much more easily appreciated in silence.”

Quietly, John seethed. It wasn’t that Sherlock had noticed he was staring. John was sure that he had as he noticed everything. It was more that Sherlock had decided to make a mockery of John appreciating Sherlock’s looks as if it were a joke. As if John being attracted to Sherlock were a joke. As if the idea that anything between them could happen was a joke. John hated to admit that he had hoped, in the dark, at night, it moments of complete honesty with himself, for possibilities — and having those possibilities mocked was absolutely unbearable.

John’s face burned.

Sherlock stood and started sorting through the books he had assembled on the table. He looked at John from the corner of his eye and raised his eyebrow haughtily.

“Although I do wonder what you’re thinking about while you stare. You do it for such long periods of time.” He turned toward his room, book in hand, as self-satisfied as ever, and spoke over his shoulder, as if the entire thing were an afterthought — as if John were an afterthought. “What could possibly be going through that small mind of yours?”

That was it for John.

Quickly he stood, rushing  forward, shoving at Sherlock until he was up against the kitchen wall. John pinned him, hand to head, hips to arse.

“You want to know what I think about? When I look at you?”

“John.” Sherlock tried for stern but came away nothing but breathless. “What — what are you doing?”

“This. I think about this.”

WIthout thinking, John shamelessly ground against Sherlock, insinuating himself against his arse, slowly, deliberately, and felt extremely satisfied when Sherlock quietly moaned and dropped his head back onto John’s shoulder.

“I thought you’d have deduced this by now, Sherlock. Wasn’t that what your little speech was all about?”

Sherlock’s was breathing heavily, gasping each time John pushed against him, and when John reached around to Sherlock’s front he found him hard as steel in his ridiculously tight trousers.

“John I was, ahh, I was joking!”

John laughed. “Is that what I am to you then? A joke?”

“No, I didn’t mean —”

“Shut up. John growled into Sherlock’s neck while his head lolled, back and forth, grinding backwards, keeping up with him. “If you really want to know what I think about when I look at you, I’ll tell you. I think about how how all the planes of your face would feel under my tongue. How the ridges of your lips would slip under it, how your stubble would grate against my tastebuds, how my mouth would be filled with the flavor of your skin, your sweat. What it would be like to trace the lines of the wrinkles you pretend not to have with my tongue and feel the different textures from mouth to cheek to neck under my lips. I think about the way your close lipped smile turns up the corners of your mouth and how it would be to slip between those creases and feel the lines in your bottom lip with my own and take your pulse with the inside of my mouth against your neck and my fingers through your hair, soft and hard and tangled and matted and pulling and above all I think about the taste and texture of every inch of your skin that I can see and that I can’t.”

Sherlock was panting his name by then, pushing back against John, and when he whined, “ _Please_ ,” John couldn’t stop himself. He came his jeans against Sherlock’s arse, pulling on Sherlock's hair and swearing.

The kitchen was heavy with silence and John was pleased at that. He pulled a quietly huffing Sherlock away from the wall and pushed him toward his bedroom door, uninterested in seeing his face, speaking only to his heaving back.

“ _That’s_ what I think about.”

John left him there in the kitchen without another word.

\--

He left for Dublin in the morning, before Sherlock surfaced, as was glad for it. John was completely unsure of what would happen if Sherlock provoked him again and he was already feeling sorry for having lost control the day before. If it ever happened, that wasn’t the way he’d wanted it to go, demanding and taking. He’d love to have Sherlock yield to him, to admit he’d wanted things just as much — which he clearly had — but no. With Sherlock, everything had to be done the most difficult way possible, or not done at all. John was entirely unsure of which way he’d just opted for.

As it always was on short trips from him, John missed Sherlock persistently. It was irritating. It wasn’t an ache or a pain the way John missed him. It was like the feeling you’d forgotten something important, all the time, niggling at him, his mind insisting to him that something wasn’t there that should be. He hated it. Why he shouldn’t be able to get away from all the insanity for two or three days without feeling — well, feeling whatever the hell this was — ate at him constantly.

He left Dublin a day early.

And 221B was empty. John forced himself to walk slowly around the flat, forced himself not to give in to the panic rising in his chest, as he checked through Sherlock’s things. Nothing was missing, no clothes, no bags. He texted Lestrade, attempting his best at casual concern and usual, Greg didn’t let on. No sign of Sherlock at New Scotland Yard.

John attempted to shake off worry by going to bed early. He climbed the stairs, unbuttoning his shirt and by the time he reached his bed, he wore only his pants. He chucked his clothes into an overflowing hamper and bunching himself up under the covers, he forced himself to sleep.

\--

“Why do you have to go away?”

The deep baritone voice bled into the room like spilled wine on a white table cloth, seeping into John from head to foot. He turned over. Sherlock was silhouetted in the doorway, looming and mysterious, coat and all. John could trace the contours of that silhouette with the wrong hand and his eyes closed.

“It’s life.”

Sherlock made a perturbed noise but didn’t move. It wasn’t the first time Sherlock came to John’s room while he was sleeping, not the first bedside conversation they’d had, but tonight John felt the difference, the hesitance, the unbalance in Sherlock and John was awash in guilt. Two days ago he’d suddenly crossed this line between the two of them, the line they always danced around, never sure if the other was uninterested or merely hesitant. He breached it and then he left and Sherlock spent 48 hours, apparently without a case, thinking himself into a frenzy over what it meant.

“Take off your coat.” Slowly, sherlock shrugged it off, the scarf as well, dumped them both on the hamper, on top of John’s clothes. John lifted the blankets.

“Come here.”

He didn’t try to hide his earnestness and in that moment, as in so many others, John was forever endeared. Sherlock clambered under the sheets and stretched out, long and languid, like a cat, close to but not quite touching John.

“Are you tired?”

“I haven’t slept since you left.”

“Oh no. God, Sherlock, I’m sorry.”

Sherlock sniffed and John sighed. They lay facing each other in the full bed, breathing evenly, and John was overwhelmed, overburdened with the desire to touch him. He kept still.

“I’ve made a mess, haven’t I?”

Sherlock shook his head, eyes closed, so clearly so far out of his depth he couldn’t think of a word. Silence for long minutes until John was unable to contain himself. Reaching out, he dragged one finger along the bridge of Sherlock’s nose and down over the bow of his lips, which slowly parted.

“John?”

He pulled his hand back. “Mmm?”

Sherlock’s eyes remained closed. “What else do you think about? When you look at me?”

Taking a long and slow breath, John answered him in a reverent whisper.

“Oh Sherlock. What _don’t_ I think about?”

His eyes opened, wide and John slid closer, lifting his hand up and placing it against Sherlock’s chest, where his heart was hammering, steady and hard and fast.

“I think about the way your chest would feel under my hands. And your ribs and your hips and your back.” His hand followed to each place in turn. “I think about how it would be to take of whatever too-tight clothes you’re wearing, so I can feel the skin underneath.” John began to unbutton his shirt, slowly, and nuzzled his nose against Sherlock’s cheek, his eyes fluttering shut again. “And I spend hours, _hours_ thinking about your mouth.” Despite Sherlock's obvious trepidation, he slowly tipped his head toward John’s mouth, ghosting their lips together, opening on a sigh, and it couldn’t be helped. He didn’t know if Sherlock was ready for this — if they were ready — but if John didn’t make this move now, he would burn alive from the inside out.

John pressed his lips against Sherlock’s and it was all soft and wet and lovely and sweet. John felt his heart swelling and aching as he finished Sherlock’s last button and parted the purple swatches of fabric, scrubbing the tan skin of his hands over the white of Sherlock’s chest, around to the lines of muscle on his back. Sherlock sighed into his mouth and shuffled himself closer so their chests pressed together, skin to skin, and everything was slow and luscious as Sherlock’s trembling hands tentatively slipped over John’s shoulders.

“Sherlock.” John whispered against Sherlock’s mouth. “You’re shaking.”

“Shh.” And they were kissing again. There would be time to wonder if this was the right thing, if John should have been the adult, ever the caretaker, and stopped things, took stock of Sherlock’s emotional state. There would be time to wonder and it would be later.

John kissed him like he could pour his beating heart into Sherlock with his mouth while he gently worked Sherlock’s trousers open and down, and dipped his fingers into the waistband of his pants, feeling heat and moisture and hard, soft flesh. John ran his fingers up and down Sherlock’s cock, enjoying the pleading, incoherent sounds spilling from Sherlock’s throat. He leaned his head back and bared his throat, where John lapped and sucked shamelessly. He began stroking Sherlock gently and murmuring into his throat.

“I think about this, Sherlock, god, do I think about this.”

“ _John_.” When Sherlock says his name it’s a filthy, indecent thing and John’s own cock began to leak a wet spot on the front of his pants but he didn’t care, John didn’t care about anything but seeing Sherlock undone. Watching his face while John rocked him to the core, until he was keening and fucking himself into John’s hand.

“It’s not just when I stare at you, Sherlock. It’s all the time. I think about you, about this, all the time, it’s constant. I’m never thinking of anything else but having my hands and my mouth on you.”

Sherlock’s hand fisted against John’s chest and his hips stuttered forward, smearing pre-come into John’s hand, his mouth hanging open, eyes screwed shut, completely lost to the world. Lost to everyone but John.

“Look at me Sherlock.”

His eyes flew open, burning into John’s because John had to, had to see this moment.

“ _You_ are what I think about. Always.”

Sherlock came in thick, white stripes on John’s hand and stomach and sheets, managing to keep his eyes open through, locked with John’s and John was certain, was sure, there would never be anything that mattered more than this.

\--

After, John undressed a limp and lolling Sherlock and cleaned them up as best he could without rising from the bed, ignoring his own painfully hard erection until it flagged enough to bear, although not completely. It wasn’t important, not now. What was important was gathering the still shivering detective into his arms, tucking his head beneath John’s chin and pulling the covers around them both.

When the shaking still hadn’t assuaged ten minutes later, John had to ask.

“Sherlock, was that the first time—”

“Don't.”

“Jesus, it was, wasn’t it?”

Sherlock stayed silent, clenching around John tightly, and John knew he was right. He kissed the top of Sherlock’s head, nuzzled the tangled curls and inhaled deeply, desperate to know the details, if Sherlock had ever even kissed anyone before, but not daring to ask, to pry. He shushed and soothed and trailed his short fingernails over the bare skin of Sherlock’s back until his breathing slowed and the trembling finally eased.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“... what does it mean?”

“What do you want it to mean?”

“I don’t know.”

John sighed and smiled into the dark. Sherlock would know in the morning. They both would. John pulled him in tight.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not going anywhere.”

**Author's Note:**

> teapotsubtext.tumblr.com


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